


Circles

by human_dreamer_etcetera



Series: Those Binary Stars [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: (because when isn't he), Broken Engagement, F/M, Family Dynamics, Melancholy, Morse is a little mopey, Rings, but it's actually quite sweet overall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25154788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/human_dreamer_etcetera/pseuds/human_dreamer_etcetera
Summary: Ring shopping brings up some memories for Morse.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday, Susan Fallon/Endeavour Morse (past)
Series: Those Binary Stars [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822189
Comments: 19
Kudos: 33





	Circles

**Author's Note:**

> The first of what I hope will be a handful of TBS continuation oneshots! Can be read as a standalone, probably, but almost certainly more fun having read the original fic first. Featuring an appearance from Sam, sort of, because I love writing him and I missed him when I went back and reread the beginning of Those Binary Stars, and also Joyce, because this is the Supportive Siblings Show, basically.

There was never one particular moment that Morse decided - or perhaps, more accurately, realized - he wanted to marry Joan. Perhaps it was just sort of always there, the dull awareness of an unsurprising fact, like periodically remembering the existence of gravity: rarely held in conscious thought, but reminding one not to go leaping out of windows all the same.

Which is how he’s managed to make it as far as an anticipatory acceptance of a proposal that is an acknowledged eventuality… all without a ring. It’s not so much that he hadn’t thought it through yet; no, he just hadn’t thought Joan would be as ready as he was. Now he’s found himself wandering past gleaming cases at a jeweler’s, hoping against hope that he can somehow make himself small or unobtrusive enough not to be noticed. He has a feeling the sling he hasn’t quite managed to rid himself of yet isn’t going to make that effort any easier, though.

He’d forgotten, in the intervening years since the last time he did this, just how _petrifying_ ring shopping can be.

Choosing a ring for Susan was, in many ways, easier; after all, there was an established expectation for him to meet, a set of checkboxes to mark off. Not that he had the means to meet all of them, naturally - Susan was in possession of a carefully cultivated (and very expensive) taste - but the options were to make any sacrifice necessary, or to be measured up against the standard and found wanting. And he knew which he’d rather. By that point, he’d had plenty of practice sacrificing anything - time, finances, sleep, pride, grades, a sense of self - for the attention and affection of Susan Bryce-Morgan.

He had been so relieved when she had accepted his proposal. Looking back, it seems almost absurd; shouldn’t one feel a sense of excitement, like looking ahead to an adventure, rather than the relief of escaping judgment? He spent so much of their relationship feeling as though he were on trial. Oh, it started out lovely enough, the sweet taste of first love, but from the moment he met her parents, it was a constant barrage of shoulds and won’t-yous. Caroline never missed an opportunity to remind Morse that he would never cut it in their circles, and it wasn’t long before Susan began echoing her mother's barbs, albeit all in the pretty wrappings of helping him to fit in.

To compare that proposal - the painstaking detail, the worrying over any tiny element veering off script - to what he’s had now, with Joan, is almost laughable. Artless, no design to bake in with artifice, confessional - the sheer joy of knowing, at long last, they were on the same page, walking side by side, strides in pace… To be able to tease one another, even, to fall into kisses threaded through with laughter. 

So maybe he doesn’t need to be quite so anxious, facing down all these cases shining with flashes of gold and platinum and glittering diamonds and rubies cut into every shape. But still, it feels quite daunting. It may be a mere symbol, a ring, but it’s something permanent, isn’t it? Or meant to be, anyway. 

When she broke things off between them, Susan had returned the ring. It’s possible she meant well, or thought she did, but the sting felt as a sharp as a slap in the face, the offense just as deep. He wasn’t sure what hurt more: having to handle the practicalities of pawning the thing, all the while feeling the misery and rejection radiating from his pocket; versus facing the reality of Susan’s pity, knowing she believed it to be some act of charity, a supposed balm or apology about his financial situation. She couldn’t hide it anymore, the way she viewed him as beneath her, pathetic, the way her mother always did. Well, it didn’t help much then, did it, couldn’t win him back his scholarship, or the esteem of his professors after he missed yet another lecture, or his long-abandoned self-respect… 

He’d have gone on wallowing _ad infinitum_ , probably, if he hadn’t been sent down, sent home, or to the place that he was supposed to call home, anyway. And it was Joycie who pulled him out of that spiral, just like it had been countless times in his younger years. Back then, it was often enough he could snap back to reason simply for fear of the impact his temptations toward the beckoning darkness could have on his sister. This time, it took the searing shame of her being called upon to fetch him from the pub - as she’d doubtless been asked to do for their father a thousand times while Morse was up - that knocked some sense into him. Staring blearily at Joyce out from somewhere around the bottom of a bottle, seeing the look of genuine, compassionate sadness on her face, he knew he couldn’t let things go on like this. Emboldened, perhaps, by a truly legendary hangover the next morning, he swore off the booze, if only to do better by the one person in his life worth changing for, who didn’t deserve to pick up his pieces.

What can he possibly be thinking, inflicting his own mess on Joan? Joan, who doesn’t deserve any of his wavering uncertainty or bad habits or general existential angst, who—

Joan, who is fierce and fiery and tender and determined and the most beautifully brave woman he’s ever known.

Joan, who refuses to be guilted into anything she doesn’t wholeheartedly believe in, who has made a life for herself of pursuing what matters most to her, and who somehow decided that Morse should be part of that life.

Joan, who calls him what he chooses, who carries his name so carefully and gently in her mouth, from the moment he shared it with her. Susan called him Endeavour only to lord it over the others in their circle that she knew a piece of him they could not have. Joan used his name once in anger, and when he admitted it bothered him - felt like tainting a memory of his mother, somehow, the one person with whom that name was always safe - she’s never done it again. Mostly, with her, he’s Morse, which never feels like an evasion or a half-truth; somehow, with Joan, he’s all of who he is, in a way that’s so much more than he ever expected to be.

**

Morse walks home with a carefully folded receipt in his pocket for an emerald ring, which should be resized and ready in a few days. The emerald was partly a compromise on price - he could hear all of Joan’s practical objections in his ear with each diamond he looked at - but it’s also partly because the brilliant green reminds him of Joan’s peace and light.

When he reaches the house, there’s a letter waiting for him. The return address - Germany - reveals that it’s from Sam Thursday. The timing is impeccable, of course. Morse flips the envelope over and slides a finger under the flap to open it, and the letter within tumbles out, somehow exuding all the barely-constrained energy of its writer.

He recalls the words he’d nervously penned just over a fortnight since:

_I know it’s traditional to ask a woman’s father for his blessing first. Rest assured, I will be doing that (with Joan’s approval - I know there are some who see the tradition as stuffy or outdated, but you know me, forever “square,” or so Joan has repeatedly reminded me); still, somehow it seemed fair to tell you first, perhaps as a practice round of sorts._

In blocky print, Sam has scrawled off a return missive:

_Taken you long enough, hasn’t it? Can’t say I didn’t see it coming, the two of you batting eyelashes from across the table at all those dinners and pretending not to see each other in the front hall. You were like a pair of magnets, back in the day. If you’re willing to put up with all my sister’s noxious habits, I suppose there must be something in it for you somewhere, yeah?_

_I was going to ask if you were sure, if you’ve met grouchy morning hangover Joan yet, and then decided there are some things a brother doesn’t want to know…_

_Seriously, though, good on you. If you ever let on to her I said this, I’ll deny it, but Joanie’s a real gem. Let me know when everything’s official and you’ve settled on a date - I’ll make sure to request leave nice and early so I have plenty of time to kiss up to any superiors as needed. And don’t worry so much about how Dad will react. Honestly, I think he’ll be chuffed to have you as a future son-in-law. Mum will cry, of course. We can never let her find out I knew first; she’ll kill the both of us. I think it’s safe to say you’ll get any blessing you ask for._

Morse feels a smile slowly bloom across his face. He still has some details of a proper proposal to work out, but that planning - and the daunting conversation with Thursday on top of it - feels almost inconsequential when he thinks of finally sliding that ring onto Joan’s finger and knowing it’s more than a fleeting happiness to be followed with a later crash of reality, but a promise of forever, with every bit of stubbornness that means.


End file.
